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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148478">Names</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC'>SandrC</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Not Another D&amp;D Podcast (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Author Projecting on Syb, Character Study, Love me a they/them, its about getting to pick how you're seen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:41:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,943</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been called by many names. The only one that matters is the one they picked themself.</p>
<p>It goes like this:</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Names</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I like Syb okay? I'm a Symp. So sue me.</p>
<p>I just think that having a canon nonbinary character — especially one that uses pronouns I use, though I hold out for a canon character that uses neopronouns one day — is very me rights. Especially when they're a rogue, which is my favorite class in all RPGs.</p>
<p>Anyway I just wanted to meander through some thoughts I had. Not terribly coherent but I got it done. [Glares at my Fia fic.]</p>
<p>Hope y'all like it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>They have a given name but no one says it. In a place where their family has the most pull possible, it is their <em>surname</em> that is used. And so they sit there, buried under the weight of their surname, smiling with <em>all</em> their teeth like a feral beast. "Bonkginya," everyone says, and they have to answer, chained with the leash of responsibility to a house and a duty and a town and <em>they hate it.</em></p>
<p>Even when their parents talk to them, they don't hear their given name. They hear <em>Bonkginya</em>. They hear their<em> family</em>. They hear their <em>duty</em>, their <em>house</em>, their <em>future</em>.</p>
<p>And so, with <em>all</em> the power invested in them, they chew their leash to ribbons and cut the ties that bind. They leave their given name like a lizard's tail, bait for predators, and run.</p>
<p>They won't be that person again.</p>
<p>That person is dead.</p>
<p>And so is that name.</p>
<p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>They arrive in Thornkirk and hear of the Rooks. Honorable thieves, the type that books are written about, Robin Hood and the like. Stories that got them through the roughest patches of their life. Stories they held on to as proof that the system—the shackles that chained them to a surname that felt like a brand—was <em>broken</em> and people saw that.</p>
<p>So they seek the Rooks out and it's everything they want <em>and more.</em></p>
<p>They seek out the Rooks and it's picturesque and the part of their brain that's built to find fault in people—court rituals and bowing to people that everyone speaks about in whispers behind their back and <em>ma'am</em> and <em>sir</em> and <em>lord</em> and <em>lady</em>—doesn't pick up on the rose tinted veneer until the walls close too tight for them to wiggle free.</p>
<p>When the old Rook who catches them assisting with a job—<em>something</em> about bees and honey and a big money meadery that was intimidating the opposition into closing—asks their name with the same soft crooked grin of someone talking to a stray they plan on keeping, they <em>panic</em>. They <em>can't</em> be their surname again. They <em>hate</em> their surname, left it behind when they fled; but they can't be their <em>given</em> name either.</p>
<p>It doesn't <em>fit</em>. <em>Never did.</em></p>
<p>So when asked—looking up at this burly man who <em>had</em> to have been a mariner before he found a place among the Rooks, crooked grin and scarred face with a missing eye and three fake teeth—they stammer out the first thing that comes to mind.</p>
<p>"<em>Ssssssyb?</em>" It sounds more like a <em>question</em> than an <em>answer</em>, the rising indicative of being unsure. The drawn sibilance of the start of it like they were stalling for time. It <em>was</em> and they <em>were</em>, but this man didn't need to know that.</p>
<p>"Yeah? That right?" He asks again and they nod, doubling down.</p>
<p>"<em>Yeah</em>, my name's Syb. You some kind of fucking <em>guard</em> or something? Asking someone their name like you plan to make a fucking Pact or Deal or Trade? Wanna see my scales while you're at it, <em>huh</em>?" Their mouth, <em>like always</em>, runs away from them but, <em>un</em>like always, this Rook just laughs and shakes his head. Pats Syb on the head with one big, meaty hand, shaking their whole frame with a simple movement.</p>
<p>"<em>Nah</em>. Not a guard, nor anyone who'd give <em>two shits</em> about your scales. Just a...<em>concerned individual</em>." His grin is the <em>scariest</em> thing Syb has ever seen. His grin is the <em>most comforting</em> thing Syb has ever seen. "If you're gonna follow us, do it at a distance, <em>eh</em>, <em>Syb</em>?"</p>
<p>The conflicting feeling of hearing a name that feels like home and being chastised war inside their chest. They flush and duck their head.</p>
<p>"But we can always teach you, if you're <em>willing</em>." A door, thrown open, and Syb, a foolish bird, enters the Rooks with no forethought.</p>
<p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>They pretend they don't notice their cage shrinking. They pretend they don't hear Madame Whitlock and her thug brother plan for the greatness they ran from. They swallow their medicine—grains and necrosis and sugar sweet <em>forgetting</em>—and grab their many knives and think about brands and leashes and how they decided this was their fate.</p>
<p>(<em>Did</em> they though?)</p>
<p>And they don't think about Fergus and Sewastian and Sadie. They don't think about Broken Hearts and Justice and Righteousness. They don't think about stilling a hand the size of their head, <em>expecting</em> the violence to come their way, preferable to drinking away the guilt. They don't think about the <em>relief</em> of living when the violence is turned on another and their heart, a bird in their throat, panics against their ribs.</p>
<p>(They don't think about an ex-mariner with missing teeth and a missing eye and a laugh like thunder. They don't think about the pride on his face when they got their tattoo, marking them a Rook Proper. They don't think about finding him dead in a manner they soon come to associate with Fergus. They just drink and stew in their regrets and resentment.)</p>
<p>They've achieved their goal. They joined the Rooks.</p>
<p>They swapped <em>one</em> leash for <em>another</em>.</p>
<p>The folks of Thornkirk—both the regular joes and the Guard—all look at them and they don't see Bonkginya, which is a <em>relief</em>. But they <em>also</em> don't see Syb. They just see <em>a Rook</em>.</p>
<p>It's fine. <em>It's fine.</em></p>
<p>(<em>Is</em> it though?)</p>
<p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>They stop Fergus from doing in some idiot they've been told to "take aside" for the local mortician so he can take a stealth boat out of town (for <em>whatever</em> reason he has; it's not Syb's job to worry about the motive when told to jump, just to ask "how high"). They have these poor jackasses tied up in the bushes near the pier and then this doctor sort—wispy looking dude with washed-out hair and bags under his eyes—tries to butt in and, <em>fuck</em> their bleeding heart, but Syb has to still Fergus's hand <em>again</em>.</p>
<p>(They pay for it but at least that night's drink is for dulling the pain and not for <em>forgetting.</em>)</p>
<p>That doctor sort <em>owes</em> them now. Favors are a simple currency, one Syb trades <em>exclusively</em> in. Money is well and good when it can be, but a hired hand or a hushed surgeon is worth their weight in gold and Syb <em>knows</em> they're treading dangerous territory already. It's worth more to have a doctor willing to stitch up the dissenting voices in the Rooks that <em>isn't</em> sitting pretty in Madame Whitlock's pockets.</p>
<p><em>You owe me</em>, the note says.</p>
<p>It doesn't say to come seeking trouble, but he does.</p>
<p>(Maybe <em>they're</em> the true heroes of this story. Maybe Syb <em>isn't</em> the Robin Hood sort, but a bit role. Maybe they should be less irritated.)</p>
<p>But the big one—old guy off the docks, an easy sneak job, one over the head and he was <em>out</em>—starts looking promising and Syb is a bleeding heart. Or, <em>well</em>, they have a <em>hemorrhaging wallet</em>, and a meathead who knows his place is a cash cow.</p>
<p>But the wild witch woman with a sword at her hip and a cigar in her teeth <em>tries</em> to sell them a bridge with their name on it. <em>Their</em> surname. <em>Bonkginya</em>. A flood of panic tears the blood from their limbs and they snarl in her face. "<em>Never</em> say that name again." And she concedes.</p>
<p>But the doctor sort is sincere and they direct him to Madame Whitlock with a duck of their head. <em>That's</em> where his info lies, but he <em>still</em> <em>owes</em> <em>them</em>. All three of them do—even <em>if</em> they say that winning them some cash will cover it.</p>
<p>(They had their fingers crossed. Doesn't fucking count.)</p>
<p>All three nod and for a brief moment, Syb feels <em>seen</em>. Not as a <em>Bonkginya</em>. Not as <em>Syb the Rook</em>. But just <em>Syb</em>. Them.</p>
<p>Feels a bit good, this warmth in the crags of their dried out heart, they think as they watch Henry one shot ol' Glass-Jaw Willy.</p>
<p>They let themself hope, nurturing the dying bird in their ribs like a fool.</p>
<p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>They let the three jackasses in on darker things. They already hate Fergus, easy enough. They know Madame Whitlock is hiding things. They don't like that ol Fenrose has been replaced or that the Petty King has his fingers in this or that the fucking Scales are more important. They like the Trickster.</p>
<p>So Syb lets them in on the secret.</p>
<p>And then they wake up on the Scales, <em>alone</em>, head aching like a <em>motherfucker</em>. Fergus's work <em>for sure.</em> They know <em>this</em> pain.</p>
<p>They think back to what happened, strain their ears to hear what's going on, and paint a picture of betrayal.</p>
<p>Someone among their ranks snitched. Was a <em>goddamn mole</em>. And <em>now</em> Syb and the rest would be scapegoats to fix the scales in Madame Whitlock's favor. They, the <em>brash ruffians</em> and <em>rogues</em> who <em>murdered</em> and <em>stole</em>. She, the <em>wise</em> and <em>kind ruler</em>, rooting out the <em>chaff</em> from the <em>wheat</em>.</p>
<p>They wouldn't be found innocent in a kangaroo court. They'd be fed to a damn Horror and they'd call it Righteous and Fair and Justice and What Had To Be Done.</p>
<p>"<em>Syb Bonkginya</em>," Madame Whitlock says, painted mouth a thin smile, parasol on her shoulder. Syb quakes in their bindings, <em>furious</em> but <em>impotent</em>. Her eyes say <em>everything</em>; her derision clear. She reads them their last rites.</p>
<p>They <em>know</em> they're made but...to have their name <em>butchered</em> like that—a mixture of the old shackle and the new cage—was a horror <em>all its own</em>. <em>Far greater</em> than the toadlemax beneath them, the dread from <em>that</em> is all-consuming.</p>
<p>(<em>That</em> and the crushing loneliness. <em>No one</em> is going to save them. Anyone who <em>cared</em> is tied up. <em>Everyone else</em> is a patsy, a witness to this fucking clownshow.)</p>
<p>They close their eyes as the Scales are shifted, the priest counterbalancing.</p>
<p>They <em>wait</em>.</p>
<p>The plummeting death never comes.</p>
<p>In the crowd, dissent and anger, the faintest sound of...<em>Zirk</em>? Many iterations of him, cast across the crowd, pulling them to a froth.</p>
<p>They open their eyes and look to see <em>Henry</em>, face screwed in frustration, his shadow leaping from beneath his feet as he charges Fergus. More determined than they've ever seen the man, and for <em>what</em>? <em>Their</em> life?</p>
<p>They see the confusion of the priest no longer on the Scale. Why haven't they fallen to their death? They look to find the answer themself and see the magic flickering at Fia's fingertips as she lunges forward to free them to join the fray.</p>
<p>And <em>oh</em>, isn't <em>that</em> a novel feeling? <em>Hope</em>?</p>
<p>Their name on their lips, here are people who care.</p>
<p>Syb draws their blades and fights.</p>
<p>(They aren't <em>the hero</em>, but they don't have to sit in the <em>background</em>, do they? They can be <em>active</em>. Damn the narrative! If there is no honor among thieves, then they will be Arsène Lupin themself!)</p>
<p>Penned in the books, their name is called on as an ally: <em>Syb</em>.</p>
<p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>The three ready themselves to leave town</p>
<p>Thornkirk is getting back on its legs, wobbly like a baby deer. Syb is at the forefront of rebuilding the Rooks. They give them a boat as a thank you.</p>
<p>(No one needs to know it's something belonging to Sewastain Fenrose. No one <em>noticed</em>, save <em>Henry</em>, and <em>he</em> just played along, only taking the keys to give them back later. It <em>all</em> panned out.)</p>
<p>They straighten themself out. Face the sunrise and walk.</p>
<p>
  <strong>It goes like this:</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Their name is Syb.</em>
</p>
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